


Pieces I: Scars

by thebasement_archivist



Category: The X-Files
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2002-02-05
Updated: 2002-02-05
Packaged: 2018-11-20 15:38:58
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 962
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11338389
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thebasement_archivist/pseuds/thebasement_archivist
Summary: This is the first in the Pieces series. It's from Mulder's POV.  No spoilers.  Just schmoopy stuff.





	Pieces I: Scars

**Author's Note:**

> Note from alice ttlg, the archivist: this story was originally archived at [The Basement](http://fanlore.org/wiki/The_Basement), which moved to the AO3 to ensure the stories are always available and so that authors may have complete control of their own works. To preserve the archive, I began manually importing its works to the AO3 as an Open Doors-approved project in June 2017. I e-mailed all creators about the move and posted announcements, but may not have reached everyone. If you are (or know) this creator, please contact me using the e-mail address on [The Basement's collection profile](http://archiveofourown.org/collections/thebasement/profile).

Pieces I: Scars

## Pieces I: Scars

#### by Susan

Title: Pieces I: Scars  
Author: Susan  
Feedback to:   
Author's Website: http://www.geocities.com/xfox7/  
Status: Complete  
Category: Unclassified  
Pairing (Primary): Mulder/Krycek  
Pairing(s) (Secondary):   
Crossover Fandom (if any):   
Crossover Info (if any):   
Other Pairing Info:   
Rating: R  
Spoilers:   
Permission to Archive:   
Series or Sequel/Prequel: A collection of snippets -- they are unrelated to one another. They are just grouped by style.  
Notes:   
Warnings:   
Disclaimer:   
Summary: This is the first in the Pieces series. It's from Mulder's POV. No spoilers. Just schmoopy stuff.

* * *

Scars 

I look over at him, lying next to me. He looks so calm. It's rare. I mean almost nonexistent. Peace in Alex Krycek. Just doesn't happen. Except for these few hours when he sleeps with me. Sometimes I wonder if he comes here to fuck me or to get a couple hours of shut-eye. 

He knows I watch him. Guess that's why he can sleep. He doesn't have to worry. And he has to know I examine him, study him, while he sleeps. I can't help it. I can't tell him I watch him because I love him. Damn, I can't tell myself that. Not like kisses and hugs love. It's something that scares the shit out of me. It's dark, fucked up. He'd probably kill me if it changed, or if I admitted it. We have to have this strangeness. This distance. He can't get close. And I don't trust myself to. Isn't that funny? I don't trust myself. 

OK, so I should know better than to let him come here and play with my life. But I have to let him in. And even as we lie here on the floor, in the hallway to my bedroom, I know, somehow, that I'll always let him in, for this or for his power games. His mind fucks. Even when he's working he toys with me, feeding me secrets, just enough to pique my interest, then drawing back. Even then I can't resist him. I'll always let him back in. This is different, though. Separate from work. He'll come back for this. He always comes back. So he's in as deep as I am, I guess. 

I shift over to lean on my elbow, ready to begin my ritual. I see the same old scars, run my fingers over his left shoulder, shudder and feel the same old feeling. Almost me. Shouldn't have happened to him. I move on, pausing on a new scar near his collarbone, almost healed, the scab small. I rub my fingers over it, trying to determine how it happened. Krycek shifts, moving closer to me. My breath catches at the sudden closeness, a shot of lust driving through me straight to my groin. But I move back a bit. I have to finish before he wakes up and leaves me again. No distractions. 

A bruise on his right shoulder seems to be the only other new mark. I sigh and tell myself that it's been a good month. I remember the last time he came. He was covered in bruises. I wanted to be easy with him, tried to be gentle. He just growled. Kissed me. Made me forget. And I did forget. Until he fell asleep. Then I looked at every single bruise. The deep purples and blues fought each other on his golden skin. I just touched them all. Watched his chest rise and fall. Watched the shifting light move across his face. Then he woke up and left. 

Get this straight. I'm not some mushy romantic. I don't want him around all the time, playing house. And contrary to popular opinion, I have a definite grip on reality. I know it's _not_ possible, even if I wanted it. I just wish he didn't have to get hurt. He comes here and I can't help trying to take care of him, even if it's just to catalog his scars. If I don't, who will? 

I don't know, maybe that's why he comes. He wants someone else to worry for a while. It eases his load. Revives his survival skills. I'm sure he forgets me as soon as he leaves. I know I forget him. For a while, at least. I don't mean to, but the daily grind just doesn't leave room for pondering over what happened to the assassin I screwed the night before. 

Anyway, he's stirring. First, he'll stretch his muscles. We didn't make it to my room last night or the couch, so he'll probably be stiff. At least he won't be as sore as he usually is. Last time I saw the wince and shudder as he pushed himself off the bed. I just had to watch. Like I always do. Sit back and watch as he got dressed and left, not saying goodbye. Just looking at me with those eyes - the last scars I see before he goes. Always brimming with anger. And hurt. And strength. Showing the wounds that won't heal. And without knowing it, he scars me. Cutting deeper every time. 

He gets up and dresses like usual. I roll over on my stomach, prop myself on my elbows, and watch him -- like usual. The natural grace always astounds me. He looks at me as he slips on his leather jacket. I feel a sharp pain in my chest. He breaks the stare and moves to the door. He slips out, the door easing shut behind him. 

I have to get moving. It's already 7:30 am and I have to get to work. And I don't think about him again until I step into the shower. And I let the steady stream wash him away. 

If you enjoyed this story, please send feedback to Susan 


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